


he doesn't want anyone else

by thebetterbina



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Gun Violence, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Illustrated, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Joker au, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Why Did I Write This?, at the time of this creation the writer was tired and the artist was horny, moonbee draws and i write we're an ideal tag team combo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 13:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16493582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: “He’s ... yours.”There’s almost a question in a way the two words are said, not something Hank dwells on — but not something he’s willing to entertain in any of his business partners.“Damn right he is.”He leaves no space to register the unholstering of his gun.mb: Im debating how can i make this outfit sluttierme: It only needs to really cover his dickmb: Deal sounds goodaka the joker au no one really asked for but we somehow provided anywaysfollow me on tumblr because twitter blocked me&annoy moonbee on twitter because she loves the attention





	he doesn't want anyone else

**Author's Note:**

> mb: I love how we fucking stop texting cuz we zoned out into fan creation porn
> 
> moonie and I are forces of chaotic nature that have at least 90342728374892379481 different aus planned for hankcon but we never actually go about posting them because we're both secretive bitches.

“We finally meet.”

 

Hank doesn't care for the hand that outstretches to shake his, it's distasteful for the most part — he doesn't like touching anything that isn't a weapon or his darling boy. Palms remain relaxed over the the studded sceptre, asscher-cut diamonds from a heist done a few weeks back; half of it went to embellishing the quite unnecessary bedazzled stick in his hands, the other half he'd gifted it to his baby; the little brat deciding he wanted all the diamonds on a leather collar for himself.

 

Carefully steeled gaze remains impassive, his attention to the club floor where Connor danced with a body moving like silk, enticing. The gold-leafed, leather collar shone under the harsh spotlights, each letter adorned with more glittering little gems than the next — all spelling out  _ puddin _ , in neat, bold letters.

 

The collar isn’t just for show, it becomes a way for Connor to show off who he belonged to. And damn if the memory didn’t turn him on, long lashes batting prettily and practically begging for yet another custom designed item.

 

But how could he say no?

 

Hank loves to spoil his baby boy rotten.

 

“He doesn't shake hands. Sit down and have a drink.”

 

Gavin, his bodyguard, ever the reliable voice when he couldn't bother to waste any oxygen. The guest, handsome, young, set of startling heterochromatic eyes that Hank would've liked if he didn't already have his own current fixation. There’s only the music and thumping of the bass that fills the otherwise speechless silence, their guest — more like a messenger boy really — breaks it first, coughing lightly before speaking.

 

“On behalf of everybody, welcome back. I wanted to come by and personally say thank you.”

 

“Well isn’t that cute?”

 

The question comes a little more curt than he intended, he trains a cool gaze over the younger man — then allows a smile to blossom features. It's not a nice game he plays, switching between murderous and friendly as he barks a laughter. Deep but loud, over the blaring music of the club while his darling dances a twirl he doesn't catch.

 

“I love this guy. Look at him, so intense.”

 

It’s an offhand comment he leaves to Gavin who only returns with a derisive snort but nothing else — their guest is perhaps a little towards the nervous side, but that's always expected when someone sits in front of Hank Anderson. He returns his gaze back to the glass center stage, the younger male following his line of sight.

 

“You're a lucky man.”

 

It's no question what he's referring to, the center piece of Hank’s life was the main attraction of the night. Lithe body with more exposed skin than necessary — but it's a sight to behold watching him bend, another dancer joining Connor in the little glass cage gets pushed up and ravished by fingers that go places that has their crowd cheering, practically begging for more. 

 

Hank feels a swell of pride.

 

“Oh, that I am. The fire in my loins. The itch in my crotch. My darling little ...  _ harlequin _ .”

 

It's a public joke at this point really — more than one person has called Hank the infamous cartoon villain (mostly out of uncanny personality resemblance) and his cute pet a version of Harley Quinn. But the story isn't that far from the actual truth, so he accepts the new title with a certain fondness.

 

He positions his fingers and blows a sharp whistle, harsh and loud enough to be heard over the blaring music. It's a sound he loves watching his little boy respond to, immediately stopping whatever tease of a show he'd been performing to focus on Hank.  _ Only ever on Hank _ .

 

It's comparable to a well trained puppy.

 

Watching him lazily trapsie over, an artfully delicate move to part the curtain of chains, his back arched and legs precariously yet effortlessly posed over the partition is always a sight to behold. Pretty brown eyes are on him,  _ only for him _ , and Hank drinks in the sight like a man with an unbearable thirst.

 

“Oh, come to Daddy.”

 

 

 

 

“Puddin’?”

 

His voice is soft,  _ always soft _ , a lilting tone of question that's unbearably innocent despite the indencency in the smile. The broad of an otherwise milky chest is littered with tattoos, most of them done in spurs of the moment but each with their own special little memory Connor never shines away from show and tell.

 

Lace garters sit tight and wrap over a waist too delicate to be considered male, stockings of an alternating black and gold are about the only things that could be considered clothing aside from the flimsy excuse of underwear. The outfit leaves little to the imagination, showing how flawless his boy already was, perfect down to his toes — just how Hank loves him.

 

And God only knows much Hank  _ loves _ bragging about his pretty little pet.

 

It's always fun for him to watch the expressions of his guests, especially first timers who’ve never laid eyes on his feature — the current one has interest sparking in blue and greens but desperation while trying to cover over that. 

 

Mostly because of the universal rule that existed in their debauched world; whatever belonged to Hank,  **_belonged_ ** to Hank.

 

Though sometimes … Hank likes to tease.

 

His own hands are calloused, big and burly as they cup soft cheeks. The difference is always startling but not surprising, while Hank has had some years to a tan and scar the doll barely had anything resembling wear and tear. 

 

Most people underestimated his boy because of that, apparently looking about as fragile as porcelain made him susceptible to becoming kidnapped more often than once — little did they understand Hank was comparable to a man who enjoyed owning an exotic animal who’d rake others with its claws but eat peacefully out of his own palm.

 

“Listen, darling. You are my gift to this handsome hunka here. You belong to him now.”

 

Like a fire jumping to a new source, he watches owlishly blinking browns take a glance behind Hank. There's not a question or a beat of hesitation when his pet takes to the command almost immediately — walking over and draping himself shamelessly over his guest like a cat vying for attention. It's as if Hank was completely forgotten.

 

“Well … you're  _ cute _ . Such pretty eyes too. You want me? I'm  _ all _ yours.”

 

A voice, low and warm like a summer breeze, Hank’s always reminded of cigarette smoke — curling around anyone who'd listen and choking if you stayed too long. Hank watches with a detached interest, pupils of their guest blowing wide at the implication. His pet curls a little closer to the otherwise stranger, letting the male drape a cautious hand over the small of a pale back.

 

The growl he releases comes a little unexpected, Hank blames his overly territorial nature.

 

Heterochromatic set glance back up at him, clearly more nervous now, if the slightly frantic attempt at putting some space between himself and Connor anything to go by. Gavin nearby tenses, it’s a slight movement but Hank knows Gavin is already considering how the situation will play out.

 

His poor bodyguard’s seen this happen more times than he can count anyways, maybe he should give Gavin a raise for all the dead bodies he manages to make disappear.

 

“I don't … want to start anything.”

 

“You don't want to start anything?”

 

He wants to scoff,  _ he _ started something the moment he laid eyes on his belonging — even the wisest men knew not to show an inkling of interest.  _ Do not covet the King’s possessions. _

 

“Why, what's wrong? You don't like me?  _ Fine _ . Don't waste my time then.”

 

Ah, the petulance of a child having been affronted. Hank finds it more endearing than most, watching his baby hiss and saunter off. Any trace of affection from before replaced with a one-eighty switch of little glares and an upturned nose.

 

“He’s ... yours.”

 

There’s almost a question in a way the two words are said, not something Hank dwells on — but not something he’s willing to entertain in any of his business partners.

 

“Damn right he is.”

 

He leaves no space to register the unholstering of his gun. 

 

The bullet that fires lodges itself not so neatly, the splatter of blood against the silver shine of the couch seat something Hank  _ tsk's _ at. Partygoers remain impassive, the music goes on without a hitch, even if anyone knew the sound of a fired gun — they’d know better than to ask questions.

 

His babydoll giggles, laughter like little spring bells, sipping on a nondescript drink Hank's sure has some kind of flavoured alcohol in it.

 

“Awwww and I actually liked this one — are you mad?”

 

“Always. But never at you, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on tumblr because twitter blocked me](https://thebetterbina.tumblr.com/) & [annoy moonbee on twitter because she loves the attention](https://twitter.com/moon_bee_?lang=en)


End file.
